


A Rose By Any Other Name

by SeaCrest



Series: Our Lives in Sketchbooks [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-27 03:09:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9949664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaCrest/pseuds/SeaCrest
Summary: The first time that Rose smelled gardenias, it was at Tante Gabrielle’s wedding, when she was six years old. That elusive scent, so rich and yet at the same time, so desperately ephemeral, reeled her in, more than any other perfume in the world. Not even the lure of fresh strawberries was so strong, and Rose Granger-Weasley had a passion for strawberries that rivalled her mother’s love of knowledge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is based upon Headcanon #1008 from HP-Headcanon on tumblr, submitted by marinaseacrest (myself!):  
> “Rose's boyfriends always bought her...you guessed it, roses. Always. Red, pink, white, yellow, purple...But Scorpius knew better. On her birthday, he would always give her a single gardenia, and she would wear it tucked into her hair all day, no matter how much it irritated her boyfriend at the time. He was too chicken to ask her out, so instead, one year, he got her a whole bouquet. Albus was the one who informed her what they meant. She said yes.”

The first time that Rose smelled gardenias, it was at Tante Gabrielle’s wedding, when she was six years old. That elusive scent, so rich and yet at the same time, so desperately ephemeral, reeled her in, more than any other perfume in the world. Not even the lure of fresh strawberries was so strong, and Rose Granger-Weasley had a passion for strawberries that rivalled her mother’s love of knowledge. 

“You like those?” Gabrielle laughed in her bell-like way, crouching down to meet her niece’s wide-eyed gaze. That beautiful creature, who was Uncle Bill’s wife’s little sister (not that Rose understood this, entirely; she only knew that Gabrielle was her aunt, somehow, some way) held out her bouquet, letting the tiny Rose inhale deeply the lush fragrance. “Princesse Rose, it is time to take our places.”

And while Rose held a basketful of rose petals (how could she not? Apolline loved the idea of a Rose scattering roses), sprinkling them before her as she tottered down the aisle in her just-too-small shoes, all she could smell was the garlands of gardenias that Gabrielle had insisted upon.

* * *

Her first kiss was with Felix Jordan. He gave her a rose on the morning of Valentine’s Day, kissing her quickly and then flushing with embarrassment before rushing away. 

Albus and Scorpius found out about it later, when Rose stormed into the Slytherin common room (nobody tried to stop her from entering anymore; between Albus Potter and Scorpius Malfoy, her place in Slytherin had been carved out with fists and spells and just a touch of blackmail) and dumped an armful of roses on top of their Potions homework.

“This is ridiculous!” she growled, flopping down on the couch next to Scorpius, who eyed the roses askance. 

“How many?” Albus asked, grinning at her. 

“Seven,” Rose answered grumpily. “And Felix Jordan kissed me!” she added in disgust. She was eleven years old; it stood to reason that she was more afraid of cooties than she was of spiders. Her father was horrified to know that she had actually wanted a pet tarantula, before her mother had talked her out of it and gotten her a snake instead. Apparently, that wasn’t much better, but at least it wasn’t a spider.

Scorpius’s nostrils flared. “You’re joking.”

“I am most decidedly not,” she grumbled, scrubbing her mouth with the back of her hand. “Why does everyone think they’re so original?”

Scorpius smirked. “Oh, I don’t know, Rose,” he drawled, sounding so much like his father (or at least, the Draco Malfoy imitations that Ron and Harry liked to do) that Albus had to stuff his fist in his mouth to keep from guffawing. “Maybe it’s because they haven’t a speck of imagination between the lot of them?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t want them.”

“So throw them out,” Albus suggested mildly. “They’ll never know. It’s not like boys are allowed in the girl’s dorms anyway.”

“If you don’t like roses,” Scorpius said thoughtfully, “what do you like?”

“Gardenias,” Albus answered promptly, before Rose could open her mouth. “She’s obsessed with them.”

“I am not!”

He raised an eyebrow at her. “You followed Gabrielle around like a puppy all day at her wedding, and you only left her alone after she gave you her bouquet. And then you sat in a corner with it the rest of the evening.”

Rose flushed. “I…okay, fine. But they smell really good!”

* * *

Next year on Valentine’s Day, predictably, she received roses of all colors at breakfast from those brave souls who fancied her enough to make their intentions known. She hardly paid her flowers any attention, save for one.

“Albus, did you…?” She stared down at the gardenia tucked behind a red, red rose on her plate. Lifting it out, she inhaled that heady fragrance and smiled happily. 

“It wasn’t me,” Albus answered, flicking a glance at Scorpius.

“I figured if you had to put up with this all day,”—he waved a hand carelessly at the pile of roses— “you should at least get something you liked,” he said with a shrug.

* * *

It was Connor McLaggen who finally wooed her with something other than roses. Well, he still incorporated roses into said wooing, but finally, finally, someone was slightly more original than handing her bouquets of roses on every important day (Valentine’s Day, anniversaries, her birthday…)

Rose of all Roses, Rose of All the World! She didn’t find out until later that it was a phrase stolen from someone else’s poem; when he whispered it into her ear, she shivered at the imagery. If she must be a rose among roses, at least she was the rose among roses! She was sixteen and romantic, cherishing the notion of poetry and flowery words. From her mother, she had inherited a love of words, of the way they seethed and ebbed, soared and tumbled, the steady cadence of someone else’s beautiful thoughts written out on paper for her to read. 

That didn’t mean he was totally original, however. Even after discovering her weakness for poetry, he still presented her with roses on an almost daily basis, to the point where her room was filled to overflowing and she carried the scent of them wherever she went. Her roommates ribbed her good-naturedly about her catch – so romantic! Privately, Rose wondered if she could get away with burning the whole lot.

* * *

“What are you wearing?” Connor demanded abruptly on Valentine’s Day as she met him in the Great Hall to walk down to Hogsmeade, his eyes dark with jealousy.

She tilted her head at him, frowning in confusion. “What do you mean?” She looked down at her clothes; nothing scandalous, improper, or mismatched. She looked perfectly presentable.

“That flower in your hair,” he gritted. “Who gave that to you?”

She was taken aback by his sudden bad manners. “Scorpius gave it to me this morning.”

Connor snatched the gardenia from her hair and threw it on the ground. “Scorpius isn’t your boyfriend. I am! You’d better stop hanging around him all the time; he’s obviously trying to make a move on you!”

Rose’s eyes filled with sudden tears. “He’s my best friend, Connor!” she yelled, her volume rising as she spoke until her voice echoed through the Great Hall. “If you don’t like that, we’re done!”

Albus shoved his way through the crowd (“Excuse me, pardon me, let me through!”) to put a hand on Rose’s shoulder. “Rose—”

“Him too?” Connor snarled nastily. “Well, aren’t you accommodating. Maybe you should stop spreading your legs for your so-called friends, then maybe you’d find someone decent!”

Their audience blinked, stunned at the accusation. Albus Potter is her cousin…is McLaggen really that stupid?

“You will apologize to Rose right now, McLaggen.” Connor whirled, fists clenched, and discovered that Scorpius had his wand drawn and pointed right at the taller boy’s nose. His face was calm and impassive, but the steel in his voice was anything but impassive.

“I’m not going to apologize to a two-timing whore!” McLaggen growled, and Rose shed her paralysis. 

“You shut your mouth!” she yelled, drawing her own wand. “You vicious, green-eyed monster!”

“Rose, no!” Albus grabbed her arm. “You don’t want to get in trouble!”

“You will apologize to Rose, and then you will get out of my sight,” Scorpius repeated silkily. Draco would have been proud of that serpentine tone. “To think that a Gryffindor would stoop so low as to make baseless accusations like a common coward. I think that you’re projecting, McLaggen. I’ve seen you with Olive Wilkes, skulking around the hallways. Are you sure you’re not the two-timer, McLaggen?”

The tip of his wand was now resting on Connor’s nose. The Gryffindor growled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Olive, my dear?” The brunette Slytherin girl stepped forward, trembling. It was clear that she was here unwillingly, and those whose parents had a particular dislike of the Malfoy patriarch wondered how much of Draco Malfoy his son Scorpius possessed in him. He had always been quiet and reserved. This cold voiced, confident, blackmailing Scorpius was new. “Tell the nice people, Olive.”

“It’s true,” she whispered, refusing to meet Rose’s shocked gaze as she trembled like a leaf in a storm. “Can I go now?”

“You may,” Scorpius agreed graciously, and she scurried away with her head down. He would deal with her later. “Now, Rose’s apology?” he prompted, fixing those burning eyes on Rose’s now-ex-boyfriend.

Connor McLaggen decided then that Scorpius Malfoy’s wrath was not a force to be reckoned with. He turned his back on his proud Gryffindor heritage and ran away.

Apparently satisfied with that result, Scorpius pocketed his wand and wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders, mirroring Albus as the two of them guided her outside.

* * *

“We warned you, Rose,” Albus said as they sat on a Conjured picnic blanket outside the Shrieking Shack later.

“Shut up,” she sniffled. She wiped her nose on Scorpius’s handkerchief. Why he carried actual handkerchiefs and not tissues, neither she nor Albus understood. “He—he seemed so nice. It wasn’t until today…”

“He was too good to be true, Rose,” Scorp said wearily, passing her a slice of the Victoria sandwich. Powdered sugar drifted down onto the blanket. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way, though.”

“No, it’s all right,” she hiccoughed, blowing powdered sugar everywhere. “I’d rather find out now.”

They ate in companionable silence for a few moments. “…didn’t you have a date, Al?” Rose asked suddenly.

He waved her off airily. “Magda knows that family comes first. I promised to take her out tomorrow instead.”

“But—”

“It’s okay, Rose,” he reassured her. “She understands. She said if you want, she’ll hex Olive Wilkes for you. She likes you, Rose, don’t worry.”

“You should still be with her today,” she said reproachfully.

Albus frowned at her. “Stop it, Rose. It’s fine.”

A pause.

“What about you, Scorp?”

“What about me?” he bit out, just barely managing not to snap at her.

“Didn’t you have a date?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She’s taken.”

“Oh.”

Al snorted, but covered it with a cough (“I just inhaled some crumbs, no biggie”). He knew. He knew exactly why Scorpius always gave Rose gardenias, for her birthday, for Valentine’s Day, for Christmas…sometimes he’d give them for no reason at all, other than “You’re moping.” But it wasn’t his secret to tell.

* * *

“Wh…what’s this?” Rose stammered as a red-faced Scorpius handed her (he had never HANDED her flowers; they had always shown up on her desk, on her plate, once even on her pillow) a whole bouquet of gardenias (and it had never been a whole bouquet). Her hands knew what was happening as they took them; her lips knew what was happening as they tingled. He leaned in, his breath ghosting across her face.

“Rose, I—”

“Shut up and kiss me, idiot,” she breathed, but she didn’t let him respond. She dropped the flowers and dragged his face to hers, sealing their pact.

“Rose of All the World,” Scorpius whispered against her mouth, and she knew that he meant every word. “‘There’s nothing but our own red blood / Can make a right Rose Tree.’”

“I didn’t know you liked poetry.”

“I didn’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> Poem quotes from “The Rose of Battle” and “The Rose Tree” by William Butler Yeats.


End file.
